


The Battered Collection of Captain Lee Crane

by AZombieWrites (EgorStandish)



Category: Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea
Genre: Angst, Gen, Horror, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-06-11 06:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15309315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EgorStandish/pseuds/AZombieWrites
Summary: Commander Lee Crane, Captain of the Seaview, thought he lived a dangerous life . . . and then he met me; a writer whose only purpose in life is to physically and emotionally whump Lee Crane in a descriptive and bloody manner in a collection of short stories.





	1. Phone Call

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimers:** Based on the characters created by Irwin Allen.
> 
>  **Challenge:** 10-Hurt-Comfort on Livejournal.  
>  **Prompt:** Phone Call  
>  **Status:** Each chapter can be read as a stand-alone story.
> 
>  **Chapter Summary:** Someone . . . or something is stalking Captain Crane through Seaview's intercom system.

The radio crackled.

A broken sound. 

A burst of static, the noise irritating . . . almost painful.

Words spoken, hard to hear. Hard to understand.

Sparks adjusted the signal, long, thin fingers turning the dials. The static grew. An explosion of sound, of irritation, of pain. Sparks grimaced, pulling the radio headset from his head and dropping it on the desk as he began to rub the pain from his right ear. He turned his upper body, gaze lifting as he looked up at his commanding officer. 

“Sorry, sir,” said Sparks. “There’s just too much static. I can’t get a clear signal.”

Captain Crane nodded in understanding; he had heard the noise, his own body reacting to the sound. “But you heard a voice?”

“Yes, sir, just like the last time.”

“Did they identify themselves?”

“Couldn’t tell, sir. Like I said, there’s too much static.”

“Okay, Sparks,” said Crane. “Keep trying.”

“Yes, sir.”

Leaning his weight against the edge of the desk and folding his arms across his chest, Crane waited a moment, watching as Sparks placed the headset back over his head . . . as another grimace of pain crossed his features. Watched as he adjusted numerous dials, experience guiding his hands. Still able to hear the static, Crane felt a touch of remorse, a moment of regret but there was no other choice; possible it was a call for help. If lives were at risk . . . it was something they couldn’t ignore.

Another burst of static.

Another grimace of pain on the young RM’s face.

Not wanting to see that particular pain filled expression again, Crane reached out and tugged the headset off Sparks. Ignoring Sparks’ look of surprise, Crane placed the headphone cuff against his right ear. Frowned in confusion when the static tapered off, replaced with a stagnant silence. Seconds passed, the silence remaining. 

“Sounds fine now,” said Crane.

“Any voices, sir?”

“No. Nothing.”

Snapped his head away as the static exploded once again, a sharp tone, his own face creasing with pain in response to the noise vibrating through his skull. Damn, that had hurt. 

“It’s not usually this bad, sir,” said Sparks. 

“Bad enough,” said Crane as he looked down at Sparks.

“I can’t figure out what’s causing the static, sir.”

Putting the headset back in place against his ear, the static now a soft hum of noise, Crane said, “Is it some sort of interference? Could someone be using electronic equipment to block the signal?”

“No, sir. I’m sure it’s not electronic interference.”

“What about something natural? We are sitting on the bottom of an oceanic trench.”

“No, sir.”

“A fault with the radio?”

“The radio, sir?”

“Not the radio,” said Crane, the expression filling Sparks’ features the only answer he needed; there was nothing wrong with the radio. “Do you think you can keep trying? If not, I can have you relieved--”

“No, sir,” said Sparks. “I mean, yes, sir. I can keep trying, sir.”

“You’re a braver man than I am.”

“I doubt that, sir.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Try again,” said Crane, nodding toward the radio board of dials.

Sounds shifted, the volume increasing before dropping back into a silence never lasting more than a few seconds at a time, the static always returning. Patience a virtue, Crane waited, body relaxed as he listened to the jumbled sounds, an uncoordinated selection of noise . . . as he waited to hear a voice amidst the chaos. 

The effort was taking up too much of his time, other duties ignored. He couldn’t stay here; this wasn’t his job. Decided it would be best to yield the headset back to Sparks and his experience and return to the Conn . . .

Something changed, Crane pausing as he realised a pattern was beginning to form . . . three short bursts of static, a moment of silence. Another three bursts of static, wincing as the noise reverberated through his skull. Confident he was hearing an SOS signal, Crane handed the headset back to the RM and said, “It sounds like Morse code. An SOS. Try and get a location of its source.”

Taking the headset, Sparks nodded in confirmation and said, “They’re using a low frequency signal, sir. It’ll be hard to locate it with any sort of accuracy.”

“Do what you can.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sparks as he put the headset on, a look of concentration on his face as he listened to what Crane had heard. 

Seconds passed, Crane frowning when Sparks’ look of concentration morphed into an expression of doubt.

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t hear anything.”

Crane reached out with his right hand, Sparks hurrying to return the headset. Settling the headphone cuff back over his right ear, Crane listened. Nothing at first, a moment of silence . . . three bursts of static, silence, three bursts of static. Limbs full with annoyance, Crane gave the headset back to Sparks and waited.

It was a tense moment, Crane beginning to think he was hearing things. Shook that thought off; he hadn’t been mistaken. He could still feel the vibrations, his brain humming within his skull. A feeling of dread when Sparks frowned, his head shaking with denial. 

“Nothing, sir.”

“I heard an SOS signal.”

“Yes, sir.”

Crane stared back at the young RM. “You didn’t hear anything?”

“Nothing, sir,” said Sparks with a flicker of fear in his blue eyes.

An uncomfortable sensation crawled across Crane’s skin. Reached out and snapped his fingers, snatching the headset from the RM’s hand. A sound of static, continuous and without interruption. A high-pitched tone pierced through Crane’s skull, a quick spike of debilitating pain. Dropping the headset, Crane closed his eyes and clenched his jaw as he bent forward, his balance waning.

Sparks stood up quickly, his chair forced back in the small space of the radio shack. He gripped Crane’s left elbow, holding him steady as Crane swayed on his feet. “Skipper?”

Crane opened his eyes, his unsteady gaze finding Sparks. “I’m all right.”

“Are you sure, sir,” said Sparks, letting go but staying close. 

“I’m sure.” Crane didn’t know what had happened. He’d felt fine and then . . . he didn’t know, realising he had no memory of the last few seconds . . . of Sparks standing. Noticed he’d dropped the radio headset. Picked it up and turned it over in his hands. What in the hell had happened? Shifted his gaze to look at Sparks, the young RM staring back with concern. “It’s all right. I’m fine now.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sparks, unwilling to pull his gaze away as he sat back down. 

Crane took a deep breath, his chest tight. Certain that, whatever it was, had passed, he set the headphones back in place, over his right ear . . . hesitated. Held the headset away from his ear, a precaution, enough distance created to stop whatever had happened from happening a second time . . . he hoped.

“Put it on speaker.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sparks as he flicked a switch.

A short burst of static from the speaker and then silence. Nothing more . . . A soft sound of static in the background, close to Crane’s right ear. He frowned, bringing the headset closer, the static becoming louder as Crane pressed the cuff against the side of his head. The speaker remained silent.

Nodding toward the speaker, Crane said, “Check the speaker.”

“Yes, sir.”

Crane waited, muscles tight with tension as Sparks checked the speaker’s connection. No words required, the RM’s body language a telling sign. Slowly handed the headset over to the younger man and said, “What do you hear?”

Sparks frowned. “Nothing, sir.”

“I want you to check the radio equipment. All of it. Twice if you have to,” said Crane as he turned and walked away.

Confusion set in as Crane made his way to the sonar station. His movements slow, his body clumsy as he stepped around the periscope island. Stopping behind Patterson, he placed his left hand on the back of the chair and his right hand on the circuit free panel next to the sonar. He leant forward, close to Patterson.

“Is there anything on sonar?”

Patterson turned his head, a moment to look at his Skipper before returning his gaze back to the sonar screen. “No, sir. It’s all clear.”

Crane watched the screen, confirming that it was clear. “Send out an active ping. I want to know if it bounces off anything . . . unusual.”

Grateful when Patterson didn’t question him. Waited as he had in the radio shack. 

“Nothing, sir,” said Patterson.

“Again.”

He could feel a soft humming vibration within his skull . . . could feel a dull ache at the back of his skull, an unwanted headache forming. A hint of vertigo . . . a glimpse of darkness on the edges of his vision. His stomach rolled with nausea. There was a feeling of exhaustion, something he hadn’t felt earlier. 

Understood something was wrong as his thoughts began to drift . . .

“Still nothing, sir. Do you want me to keep checking?” said Patterson as he looked up at Crane, a frown forming. “Skipper?”

“What?” said Crane, flicking his gaze back to Patterson, certain the man had spoken to him.

“There’s nothing on the sonar, sir. Do you want me to keep checking?”

Crane shook his head as he pushed away from the sonar station. “No.”

Limbs heavy, he moved toward Kowalski and radar, the man already wearing a look of confusion. Crane leaned his right hip, his weight against the edge of the radar station, a crutch to keep his body upright. “Anything on radar, Kowalski?”

A quick response. “No, sir.”

Felt his temper flare, not a common emotion, always fair with the men, only allowing his anger to emerge when a crewmember disobeyed an order; something this crew didn’t do very often, a rare occurrence. “Don’t you think you should look before you give me an answer.”

“Yes, sir,” said Kowalski as he looked down at the radar screen. “Nothing, sir. It’s all clear.”

“I seem to be getting that answer a lot lately.”

“Is something wrong, sir?”

Crane smiled, humor refusing to show in his eyes, and said, “This is the Seaview, Ski. There’s always something wrong.”

Kowalski frowned. “Yes, sir. So . . . what is wrong?”

“I have no idea,” said Crane, turning his head to the left, gaze searching the control room as he watched the crew of Seaview carry out their duties. “No idea.”

“Is there something I can do to help, Skipper?”

Confusion heavy in his mind, he wasn’t sure what he was doing . . . what he should be doing. Feeling his balance shift, Crane adjusted his stance, corrected his balance. Felt the exhaustion pulling him down . . .

Closed his eyes.

“Skipper!”

Crane’s hazel eyes snapped open, a moment of clarity as he looked down at Kowalski and said, “No, nothing.” Grimaced in disgust when he realised what he’d said, at his own use of the negative term.

“Sir, are you all right?”

Not willing to admit anything, to explain the way he felt, Crane said, “Yes, I’m fine.”

“It’s just . . .”

Narrowed his gaze as he stared at Kowalski. “Just what, Kowalski?”

“You don’t seem to be . . . well, sir, you just don’t seem to be yourself.”

“And what self would that be?”

“Your self, sir.”

Mentally, Crane acknowledged he didn’t feel like his normal self. A silent reflection as Kowalski watched; he felt different physically and if he admitted it to himself . . . emotionally. Anger simmered at the back of his mind, his temper ready to snap, to bite and draw blood. His body felt ill, as though he were suffering through an uncomfortable bout of flu. He’d felt fine earlier, no warning signs, no onset of symptoms. 

His brain was still humming.

Maybe the Captain of Seaview was the thing that was wrong. 

“Maybe you should go and see the doc, Skipper,” said Kowalski. “Make sure there’s noth . . . that everything’s okay.”

Distracted, Crane nodded, stood up and walked away, toward the navigation table. The Conn a familiar place; as Captain, he’d exhausted so many hours . . . so many days commanding the Seaview. Stopped beside the navigation table, hip against the edge. Rested his left hand on the table, fingers brushing back and forth across the topographic map.

A few moments of thought before he decided to follow Kowalski’s suggestion. Again, Crane walked away, past crewmembers as they followed his movements with interest, their curiosity turning to confusion. Stepping through the open hatchway and into the main passageway, Crane slowly and methodically made his way toward sickbay.

He hadn’t gotten far, passing an intercom handset when he heard the burst of static, grimacing in pain at the abrupt sound. Dismissed it as a technical fault, about to move on when he heard the voice.

“ _Crane. Help me._ ”

Crane turned on his heels, searching for the source of the voice, the request for help; the movement too quick, his balance not happy, he stumbled, falling back against the bulkhead. He leaned back, allowing the bulkhead to hold his weight, to hold him up. To the left, the passageway was empty. Turning his head, gaze looking to the right . . . empty.

Another burst of static from the handset, Crane flinching with surprise. 

“ _Help me. Crane. Help me. Please._

A frown of confusion when he realised the voice had come from the intercom. Reality hit, slamming into him; someone aboard Seaview was calling out for help. Reacting, Crane snatched the handset from the wall, pressed the button and said, “Where are you?”

Static exploded through the handset speaker, Crane turning his head away. The soft hum filling his skull increased, a sharp stab of pain collapsing his knees, body falling to the floor. 

Seconds of darkness, of confusion . . .

Crane opened his eyes, wincing at the bright light in the passageway. No idea why he was sitting on the floor or how he got there, no memory of what had happened. Nothing to explain why he was here and not in the control room . . . 

A crack of static to his right.

Turned his head, a slow movement, a hint of vertigo . . . of nausea; a reminder . . . he’d been on his way to sickbay.

The intercom handset swung on its cable. Tried to remember if he’d used the handset before . . . before what? Before he collapsed . . . before he fainted. Before he lost consciousness. Had it been seconds? Minutes? Knew with a certainty if more time had passed, a crewmember would have found him; waking up in sickbay instead of an empty passageway.

Crane pushed upward. Legs trembling with weakness it was a poor attempt, taking longer than it should. Once he was on his feet, he felt light-headed, ready to fall back down. Didn’t think he would make it to sickbay on his own, body unwilling to continue; he didn’t want to collapse a second time.

Hesitating, not sure why, Crane reached for the handset, a soft grip as he raised it . . . his intent to call for assistance, for a crewman . . . anyone . . . someone to make sure he made it safely to sickbay. 

A grumble of static.

A broken voice.

“ _Help me, Crane. Help me or die.”_

An explosion of static, the noise so loud he could feel the impact against his skin, flesh stinging. Pain tore through his skull, the darkness flooding in, dragging him under . . .

.  
.  
.

Crane fought his way to consciousness, stumbling all the way, body resistant, fighting him with everything it had and more. Struggled to open his eyes, lids too heavy, body embraced with a level of exhaustion he’d never felt before. Confident he hadn’t felt this weak fighting his way through a serious sepsis infection after he’d taken a bullet to the stomach; shot by Nelson . . . after Kruger . . .

He didn’t want to think about that particular part of his history . . . didn’t want to remember the feeling of betrayal . . .

His brain hummed, a soft, continuous vibration. A flash of memory . . . of confusion. A pinch of pain at the back of skull, Crane turning his head away from the source, the pain moving with him, a groan of discomfort escaping . . .

“Lee?”

A release of breath, a deep sigh. He didn’t have the energy to respond. Too tired, his body exhausted . . .

.  
.  
.

“Skipper?”

The voice familiar, Crane turned his head, his neck stiff . . . sore. A pounding, vibrating ache through his skull. Opened his eyes, fighting to keep them open. Vision blurred, exhaustion a blanket over his eyes, he stared back at the man beside him.

Chief Sharkey.

“No need to talk,” said Sharkey, leaning forward and patting Crane’s shoulder. “I can do that for the both of us.”

Crane frowned.

“Well, you see, Skipper, it’s like this. You walked right out of the control room without a second glance and Mr. Morton said you didn’t even hand over the Conn and that isn’t like you and Skip said you were acting kinda weird . . . sorry, sir, not acting like yourself so Mr. Morton asked me to look for you.”

Certain the frown he wore wasn’t intended to be a question, an expression of curiosity.

“You know, to make sure you were all right. I’m tellin’ ya, Skipper, when I saw you lying on the floor I thought . . . well . . .” Sharkey rubbed the palms of his hands on his thighs, body language uncomfortable . . . afraid. “I thought the worst, sir. The doc thinks . . . well, it doesn’t matter what the doc thinks.”

Tried to shift his body into a more comfortable position, to lessen the pain in his skull. A failed attempt, the exhaustion in his limbs debilitating, keeping him still, dormant; a feeling of vulnerability Crane didn’t like.

“I can get him if you need him?”

Crane tried to speak, a difficult thing. He swallowed, a painful lump moving through a throat too dry. Shook his head instead . . . a mistake. Closed his eyes and held his breath.

“Easy, Skipper,” said Sharkey, glancing over his shoulder toward the small office on the other side of the sickbay. “I’ll get the doc.”

“No,” said Crane, grimacing at the pain in his throat. The last thing he wanted was to be poked and prodded. Opening his eyes, he looked at Sharkey. “How long?”

“Hold on a sec, Skipper.”

Crane’s gaze followed the chief as Sharkey stood up and moved toward a small table. A moment of relief when Sharkey returned with a small cup. After a few sips of cold water, he felt more prepared, more confident in his ability to hold a conversation.

“How long?”

Not looking at his watch, Sharkey said, “Almost four hours, sir. You’ve got us all worried, Skipper.”

“Why?”

“Why, sir?” said Sharkey, frowning at Crane.

“What’s wrong with me?”

It was a few moments before Sharkey answered. “The doc doesn’t know, sir. The Admiral is in his lab running tests tryin’ to figure out what’s wrong.”

Crane didn’t like the hesitation, Sharkey not telling him everything.

“What aren’t you saying?”

“Me, sir?”

The man could be infuriating and Crane wouldn’t have him any other way, the chief always dependable . . . always loyal. Too loyal at times. “Yes. You.”

“I’m not a doctor, Skipper but if you ask me . . . I think you’ve been working too hard. I mean, the last couple of weeks have been one thing after another--”

Crane flinched, body shifting with surprise and pain as the sound of static flooded the sickbay. Pinpricks of pain stabbing through his skull, Crane closed his eyes. 

“Skipper?” said Sharkey, an expression of concern as he leaned forward, watching Crane with a worried gaze.

A reduction of noise, a steady, continuous level of sound, almost bearable, pain simmering at the base of his skull. Body thrumming with exhaustion, Crane opened his eyes, turned his head further, gaze searching for the intercom’s handset. 

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what, sir.”

Frowning with confusion, chest filling with a feeling of trepidation, Crane flicked his gaze toward Sharkey. Heart sinking at the expression of innocence on the chief’s face, Crane understood he was the only one hearing the sound of static coming from the intercom.

“You don’t hear anything.”

“No, sir. Should I?”

“Get the Admiral, chief.”

.  
.  
.

“Static?” said Nelson with a look of disbelief.

“Static.”

“And a voice?”

Forcing eyelids to stay open, Crane stared up at Nelson. “And a voice.”

“On the intercom?”

“Yes and the radio.”

“Have you heard it anywhere else?”

“No,” said Crane as he watched Nelson with caution, certain the Admiral didn’t believe a word.

Raising his right hand, Nelson tugged at his ear as he turned to look at Doc, his expression asking a question he refused to voice. An unspoken converstion, the doctor shaking his head in response, a shrug of his shoulders. Turning back to face Crane, Nelson smiled in consolation . . .

“You don’t believe me.”

“Lee--”

“I can hear it,” said Crane, tone full of frustration. “I can hear it now. It--”

The static increased, the noise deafening, increasing his pain to an excruciating level. Closing eyes watering with pain, Crane clenched his jaw, muscles twitching as he raised heavy limbs. Slapped his hands over his ears, long fingers embracing his head. His attempts did nothing to lessen the noise, the pain. 

“Lee!” Nelson reached down toward Crane, hesitating at the look of pure agony on his friend’s face.

Emerging through the sound of static . . .

“ _Help me, Crane. Help me or die._ ”

Rolling onto his side, Crane drew his knees up to his chest, an awkward and uncomfortable position in the small bunk bed. He’d been tortured more than once in his career, so much pain created in an effort to force him to talk . . . this was so much worse. Willing to release his secrets, his fears . . . vital information, anything . . . anything to make it stop.

Moving forward, Doc pushed Nelson out of the way and leaned over his patient. He gripped Crane’s wrists and tried to pull Crane’s hands down and out of the way. It was useless, Crane using more strength than the doctor thought he had to fight his grip. “Admiral, I need some help here.”

The pain too much, Crane shouted. “Make it stop! Please, make it stop . . .”.

“Admiral!” Doc turned his head, gaze searching, finding Nelson. The Admiral stood still, the expression of fear and uncertainty giving Doc an explanation. Behind the Admiral stood Chief Sharkey. “Chief, help me.”

Moving quickly, Sharkey knelt down beside Doc. Not sure what he should be doing, the chief pulled his gaze away from Crane to look at the doctor, searching the man’s face for instructions.

“Hold him as still as you can. I don’t want the Skipper hurting himself,” said Doc as he let go and stood up. 

“What are you gonna do, Doc?” said Sharkey, holding Crane’s upper arms, a gentle strength as he tried to keep his Captain in place.

A succinct answer as the doctor walked away. “Prepare a sedative.”

“Make it a strong one,” said Sharkey, his voice low as he stared down at Crane. “I think the Skipper’s gonna need it.”

Crane struggled against the hold, weakness and pain leaving him helpless. Unable to move, to break the hold on his arms, he fought to remember his training, lessons learnt to get him through the pain of torture. Tried to separate his mind from his body, to shut himself away from the pain. The pain only seemed to increase . . . harsh breaths as his heart pounded against his ribs. His body began to shake . . .

“Lee,” said Nelson, pulling himself together and taking a position next to Sharkey. Reaching out, he placed his hands over Crane’s white knuckled grip and leaned forward, close to his friend, close enough to feel Crane’s rapid breaths brush over his skin. “Lee, hold on. Just a minute longer. Can you do that? Lee?”

He couldn’t answer. He didn’t want to answer, to admit that he was about to break, body and mind ready to surrender . . . to talk, to give up the information required. 

“Lee. Look at me,” said Nelson, his frustration, his fear evident as he began to shake Crane’s head. “Lee! I’m ordering you. Look at me!”

Hazel eyes snapped open, his mind trained to obey a direct order. Too difficult to see the man so close, his eyes full with tears of pain, his vision blurring.

“Hold on, Lee.”

“Sharkey,” said Doc as he elbowed the chief out of the way. Sitting on the edge of the bunk bed, he pulled back the thick blankets. With no intravenous drip in use, his intention was to inject the sedative into Crane’s hip.

Crane’s gaze shifted at the sound of the doctor’s voice.

“Lee! Look at me.”

It took only a moment, the sedative quick to do its job, Crane’s body, his mind filling with the heavy weight of sleep.

.  
.  
.

He felt tired, exhausted; sleep the best medicine, or so the doctor had told him. 

Good advice.

Except for one minor detail.

Crane didn’t want to sleep. For a reason he couldn’t understand, he wanted to enjoy the quiet. His body free of pain, he wanted to reflect, to understand what had happened. No information given, they had left him alone to figure it out for himself. He didn’t put too much effort into it, didn’t dwell on it. It didn’t make a lot of sense to try. He couldn’t remember what happened, his memory empty, the previous twenty-four hours a blur of confusion. There were moments when he thought he remembered the pain, moments he couldn’t decipher.

Eyes drifting close, body relaxing, he was tempted to give in, to wait for answers. Forced his eyes open, gaze staring at the bunk above him. He didn’t want to sleep. He wanted an explanation. Knew the Admiral well enough to know he would be arriving at any moment, the explanation an excuse to visit, his concern hidden beneath a veil of neutrality; not hidden very well, Crane always able to see the concern, the worry . . . only revealed after Crane recovered from injury or illness.

Smiled when he heard footsteps in the corridor. Turned his head, gaze drifting toward the sickbay door as it opened. Not disappointed when Nelson stepped into the room.

“Lee, glad to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

“Tired. I feel like I could sleep into the next century.”

Nelson chuckled with amusement as he moved closer. He sat down on the small chair next to the bunk bed and said, “Then why aren’t you sleeping?”

“You know why?”

“You want to know what happened.”

“Yes, and Admiral, please make it quick,” said Crane with a serious expression. “I don’t want you to think your company bores me if I fall asleep during a long explanation.”

“I want to apologise first.”

“Why? You--” said Crane, stopping when Nelson held up his hand.

“I didn’t believe you,” said Nelson, a look of regret and torment on his features. “It wasn’t until . . . I’ve never seen anyone suffer through so much pain.”

Crane looked away, searching his memory. Nothing. Looked back at Nelson and said, “I don’t remember. It’s strange, Admiral. I know I was in pain. I think I remember how it felt but I when I actually try to remember . . . I can’t. Does that make sense?”

“In a way, it does make sense but believe me, Lee, you don’t want to remember.”

“What happened, Admiral?”

“We’re not sure. After speaking to some of the crew, I was able to determine that it started in the radio shack--”

“What started?”

A look of impatience from the Admiral. “I don’t know. I don’t think we’ll ever know.”

“Tell me what you do know.”

“Kowalski and Patterson told me you hadn’t been acting like yourself. You seemed distant . . . the chief found you unconscious in the passageway. Once you were awake and coherent you told me you could hear static and a voice coming through the intercom. And, as I said, I didn’t believe you, not at first.”

“And you’ve no idea what caused the noise?”

“No,” said Nelson.

“I don’t hear it now.”

“Once we realised you were telling the truth, I came up with a plan. Of course, I wasn’t sure if it would work but it was the only thing I could think of under the circumstances.”

“What did you do?”

Nelson smiled and said, “I sent an electromagnetic pulse through the entire ship.”

Crane frowned, confused for a moment, mind catching up. “But that would damage all the electrical equipment. We’d be dead on the ocean floor.”

“If you remember, we were already sitting on the ocean floor,” said Nelson. “Seaview has a failsafe system and I put it to good use. The only thing damaged by the pulse was the radio and intercom system.”

“Were?”

“I had Chip change our position as a precaution, in case the trench was the cause of your distress. We’re one hundred nautical miles west of our previous position.

Nodding in acceptance, Crane said. “How did you know the electrical pulse worked?”

“You’re not in pain and you don’t hear the static or the voice.”

Crane turned his head to look at the intercom . . . the handset. “How can I be sure it won’t return?”

“We can’t be certain of anything, Lee.”


	2. Intoxicated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimers:** Based on the characters created by Irwin Allen.
> 
>  **Prompt:** Intoxicated  
>  **Genre:** Angst 
> 
> **Chapter Summary:** Too many times, he'd lost his mind and body to sabotage, controlled and forced to do something against his will.
> 
>  **Episode Tag:** Tag for the season 3 episode 'Shadowman'.

Limbs heavy with guilt, his movements slow, Lee Crane walked toward sickbay. Reaching the closed doorway, he stopped as he felt a tremor of doubt, of hesitation ripple through him. Shook it off and reached for the doorknob, fingers wrapping around the cold metal. A single thought, a cowardly admission . . . the closed door was a barrier, something he could use as an excuse, a reason to turn around and walk away. Return to the control room, a healthier emotionally stable environment, a place where he could concentrate on other things; only a few hours away from port, his guidance needed. A weak excuse he knew . . .

No. Not this time. He’d already put it off for too long, wasted too much time, always looking for something to justify his reason for not visiting sickbay. Could blame it on the barrage of thoughts and emotions troubling him keeping him away; too indecisive and unsure how he was going to apologise, to ask for forgiveness from a man he’d gun downed. Couldn’t understand why he found it so difficult, a verbal apology so hard to find, the words eluding him. Feeling a sudden need to retreat, to find solace . . . to think, Crane turned and looked back down the empty passageway.

It would be so easy to walk away, to come back . . .

Opened the door and stepped into sickbay, stopping just inside the doorway, out of sight. If Doc saw him, there would be no escape.

Patterson lay in one of the lower bunk beds, eyes closed, body still, his right shoulder bandaged and his arm strapped to his chest. A stab of emotion crushed Crane’s chest, a tight band of guilt and remorse. Knew he should be grateful it hadn’t been worse, thankfully his aim had been inaccurate, only one shot of two causing serious damage.

Only one shot needed.

One shot was enough to almost kill a man and push his Skipper into a guilt-ridden slump.

Looking away, Crane grimaced. He had to be weak of mind, could think of no other way to explain it; too many times, he’d lost his mind and body to sabotage, controlled and forced to do things against his will. There was no memory, no recollection of what he’d done, always informed after the event was over. No one hurt during the previous incidents but this time it had been different . . . this time he’d shot the Admiral and Patterson.

He had almost killed Patterson.

He didn’t have to imagine what Patterson was thinking, a collision of emotions no doubt; a mixture of disbelief, anger and blame. Crane had felt the same emotions after the Admiral had shot Seaview’s captain. It wasn’t until later, when he discovered the reason why Nelson had taken such drastic measures that Crane had been able to forgive and accept what his friend had done. Crane wasn’t sure if Patterson would forgive or forget after he received an explanation.

Crane felt a moment of relief, his guilt increasing as he came up with another excuse to put off a conversation he wasn’t ready for, still no idea how to apologise. With Patterson asleep, he could put off his apology a little longer . . .

Feeling like a coward, Crane turned and walked out of sickbay.

.  
.  
.

With the crash doors closed behind him, Crane took another sip of Nelson’s very expensive Scotch Whisky. Slumping further down into the chair, he lifted his legs, resting crossed ankles on the edge of the table. Allowed his head to fall back and closed his eyes. He’d hoped the alcohol would deaden the emotions, the anxiety he felt. He hoped to drink enough Dutch courage to allow him to return to sickbay and apologise before they reached port, home base only an hour away.

It wasn’t working. Not yet.

Crane could almost feel the yellow streak embracing his spine. He wasn’t a coward and if asked he would admit to moments of anxiety, of fear when in a life-threatening situation; a natural healthy reaction, something wrong if he didn’t feel such emotions when lives were at risk. He was always able to work with the fear, taking advantage of the shot of adrenaline it gave him, gaining strength from it.

In this situation, the anxiety was in control, a debilitating fear. He would rather face a sea monster than Patterson. Felt confident he could take down three armed men with only his bare hands. Convinced he could easily outthink an intelligent alien. 

But right now, when it mattered . . . when his courage was needed . . . he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t face Patterson. 

In this situation, he was a coward.

As the thoughts continued to stumble through his mind, the alcohol slowing down his thought process, Crane opened his eyes and took another mouthful of alcohol. Not enough courage gained, he may have to drink the entire bottle before he returned to sickbay.

Frowned when he heard footsteps on the stairwell. He’d left orders he wasn’t to be disturbed. Turned his head, looking back over his left shoulder, ready to berate the unwanted intrusion with frustration and anger. Snapped his mouth shut before he could utter a single word. The sight of Admiral Nelson, his left arm in a sling, shut down the verbal reprimand Crane was ready and willing to unleash.

With a heavy weight in his chest, Crane turned back, gaze looking through the observation windows. Nothing to see, only clear waters ahead but inside Seaview, Crane was sure he was about to wade through murky waters.

Expecting Nelson to take the alcohol from him, Crane raised the glass to his mouth, quickly emptying the glass, grimacing as the alcohol burned its way down his throat. Leaning forward, he reached toward the bottle, a clumsy grip as he lifted it, pouring more alcohol into the glass.

Nelson moved slowly forward, stepping around Seaview’s captain. A quick evaluation as he looked down at Crane. With an expression of concern, he said, “Something wrong, Lee?”

Crane had expected admonishment, anger, even pity. He hadn’t expected understanding. In a way, he wanted to admit what was wrong, to talk about his inability to face Patterson with someone who understood but he didn’t want to reveal his cowardice to a man he admired and respected. Went on the defensive instead, the alcohol fuelling his frustration.

“What makes you think . . . something’s wrong?”

“You’re drunk.”

Crane smiled, lips twitching with amusement as he looked up at Nelson. “I prefer the term, intoxicated.”

“Why?” said Nelson, pulling out a chair and sitting down to face Crane.

“Because I’m only slightly drunk.”

“No, Lee,” said Nelson with all the patience he could find. “Why are you . . . intoxicated?”

“Because I’m drinking your very expensive Scotch Whisky, Admiral,” said Crane as he took a sip of whisky, a shot of Dutch courage to prove his point.

Nelson turned away, hiding his features as he fought back a smile. Schooled his emotions, his expression and turned back to look at Crane. “Lee, why are you drinking my very expensive Scotch Whisky?”

Shifting his gaze away from the Admiral, he looked down at the glass of whisky in his hand. He couldn’t keep deflecting Nelson’s questions. Tried to think of an answer to a very simple question. Mind too slow to respond, taking too long to think of a convincing response. He could continue to put off the inevitable but that would mean having this conversation while he was sober. He could try changing the direction of the conversation or pretend to be too drunk to understand the Admiral’s questions. Knew his attempts would be useless. The Admiral, his friend, knew him too well. Nelson would see through the lies, the avoidance tactics. 

“All right, Lee, I can see you don’t want to talk about it but I believe I know what’s bothering you--”

“Then why ask?” Crane snapped. He closed his eyes in regret, breath catching in his throat. Opened his eyes and lifted his gaze to look at Nelson. “I’m sorry, Admiral. I shouldn’t . . .”

“Does it have something to do with our previous mission?” said Nelson, waving off Crane’s apology. “Perhaps you’re feeling guilty because Patterson and I were injured during the mission. You know, I felt the same way after the Krueger incident when I shot you.”

Definitely knew him too well. He couldn’t see any other choice, nothing that would convince or deter Nelson away from the conversation Crane didn’t want to have. If he didn’t speak now, he would have to speak later. Best to do it now. Lifting his legs away from the table, he sat up, a direct line of sight.

“I don’t consider myself a coward, Admiral, but I . . . I can’t face him. I tried to kill him. Patterson could have died.”

“But he didn’t, Lee. Doc said he’ll be fine.”

Crane shook his head, not convinced. “If my aim had been more accurate . . .”

“It wasn’t--”

“Don’t placate me, Admiral! I could have killed him.”

“Maybe you don’t remember, but you also tried to kill me.”

“I know, Admiral, believe me, I know. You’re explanation of events was very detailed.”

“But you don’t feel guilty about shooting me.”

“I do feel guilty. It’s just . . . we’ve both been through the same experience. You understand how I feel. I don’t have to worry about you blaming me and not accepting my apology.”

Nelson frowned. “You haven’t spoken to Patterson yet?”

“No. Oh, I’ve tried but,” said Crane, pausing as he ran a hand over his scalp, fingers brushing through his hair. “Would you think less of me if I told you I’m afraid to talk to him?”

“No, Lee, I wouldn’t.”

“Dutch courage,” said Lee, as he raised his glass, emptying it with one swallow.

“I see,” said Nelson.

“It’s happened once too often, Admiral. I’m beginning to doubt myself. What if . . . The next time it happens . . . I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I killed one of my men or you.”

Nelson drew in a slow, deep breath . . . a slow release and said, “This isn’t your fault, Lee. An alien force was controlling you. There was nothing you could do.”

Crane released a humourless laugh. “What is it about me that aliens . . . creatures find so easy to manipulate? Is my mind so weak . . . why don’t I fight back? Why do I allow them to control my mind and body?”

Nelson couldn’t stop the confusion appearing, forehead creasing with unease. “Lee, this isn’t the first time this has happened to you. Why is it bothering you now?”

“Patterson almost died because I allowed an alien force to control me,” said Crane, voice rising with anger. “Because I was too weak to fight back.”

“Lee, you are not weak and if you were able to fight back, you would have.”

Looking away, Crane shook his head in denial and guilt. “I should have done more.”

“Lee, do you consider me to be weak?”

“No, of course I don’t,” said Crane as he looked back at Nelson.

“Just like you, my mind has been taken over and controlled on more than one occasion.”

“Sure, Krueger controlled you but you also did it to save the crew. There was no reason for me to shoot Patterson.”

“Lee, you did not shoot Patterson. The alien controlling you pulled the trigger.”

Releasing a huff of breath, a rush of frustration through gritted teeth, Crane said, “I’m struggling to believe that, Admiral.”

“I’ve tried to kill crewmembers while under the control of another force . . . alien, creature and man. When I was brainwashed, I almost killed you a second time. Do you think I could have done more? Do you believe I should have fought harder against the thing controlling me?”

Crane smiled. “If I say no you will have proven your point.”

“Then say no,” said Nelson. “There was nothing you could have done, Lee.”

“Maybe, Admiral.”

“If you accept that you’re weak then you are accusing me of weakness.”

It was hard to argue with his friend. Nelson had a point. The Admiral was one of the strongest men he knew, would ever know. If the Admiral couldn’t fight back then how could he expect to do so himself. Felt a flicker of acceptance . . . 

“No,” said Crane.

Nelson nodded in acceptance. “When I brought you back from that island . . . you were in sickbay fighting for your life . . . “

Crane could remember very little of his time in sickbay, only the confusion between reality and the nightmares that had plagued him during his delirium. Only a detailed explanation of previous events had put his thoughts and memories into a more cohesive order. He waited for Nelson to continue but the Admiral remained silent, thoughtful. Recognising the expression his friend wore, Crane waited, knowing Nelson was struggling with his thoughts . . . his emotions. 

“Doc wasn’t confident of your recovery,” said Nelson, gaze steady as he looked back at Crane. “The guilt I felt was enormous. It felt like a weight heavy on my shoulders and of course, I blamed myself for what happened. I believed I could have done more, fought harder but was able to do neither. Lee, the thing that scared me more than the thought of you dying was that you died before I could apologise to you. I wanted to explain why I shot you and I couldn’t. If you had died without knowing the truth, you would have gone to your grave thinking I had wanted you dead.

“When your condition began to improve and you regained consciousness . . . the way you looked at me. I saw the anger and blame you felt toward me. Lee, I thought I’d lost a good, dear friend. I was so certain you wouldn’t listen to my explanation or accept my apology. It took too many attempts to talk to you about what happened. I was scared of what you would think. But you did listen and you accepted my apology because you, Lee Crane, are a good man. I should have trusted your instincts, your ability to forgive. Lee, trust Pat to do the same. He’s a good man. He’ll listen and he’ll forgive. Just like you did.”

The Admiral was right. He needed to trust Patterson. He needed to give the man the opportunity to make his own choice. To decide if should lay blame directly on Crane’s shoulders or accept the circumstances leading to his injury . . .

“You’re right, Admiral,” said Crane, placing the empty glass on the table. He stood up, pushing his chair away . . . stumbled, the alcohol damaging his balance.

Nelson stood up, reaching toward Crane, stopping when Crane held up his hand.

“I’m all right. I can make it to sick bay.”

“I’m sure you can,” said Nelson, a chuckle escaping.

Crane nodded, turned and walked away.

.  
.  
.

Nothing had changed, Patterson still asleep, his position the same. Quietly dragging a small chair with him, Crane moved forward, stopping beside the bunk bed. Not wanting to wake Patterson, Crane sat down on the chair and waited. 

He could do this, Nelson’s assurances resting at the back of his mind. He knew Patterson was a good man with a good heart, a man who was willing to die for a fellow crewmember. A man, who he hoped, would be willing to forgive.

Confidence gaining momentum, Crane knew he would be able to voice an apology, his regret and his remorse.


	3. Captured/Trapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimers:** Based on the characters created by Irwin Allen.
> 
> **Prompt:** Captured/Trapped and Ghost  
>  **Genre:** Hurt/ ~~Comfort~~
> 
> **Chapter Summary:** Too many times, he'd lost his mind and body to sabotage, controlled and forced to do something against his will.
> 
> **Written** for The Spook_Me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon 2018 on Dreamwidth.

Captain Crane turned in surprise as the bulkhead door closed behind him, the handle spinning, locking into place. There was no reason for the door to close, no cause; he knew he was alone, no one on the other side of the door . . . no one to shut and lock it after he entered the reactor room. 

Frowning with confusion, he moved slowly, with careful intent back toward the door. Hands gripping the handle, he tried to open it. It wouldn’t move, the door refusing to yield beneath a strength of stubborn concentration. Giving in, for now, he stepped back from the bulkhead door. 

The lights flickered, Crane looking up as the darkness broke through, filling the reactor room, the sudden change causing a moment of blindness before the light returned.

A sound to his right, something scratching against a metal surface.

Crane turned his head, gaze searching for the source of the sound.

Muttered footsteps rushed past him, a bitter coldness embracing him as the sound of footsteps moved away from him, further into the room, Crane turning his head, his gaze to follow the sound. Felt the warmth return to his body.

With a feeling of dread, Crane realised he wasn’t alone. 

There was someone else in the room. 

Even though he’d seen no one, no physical form to match the sound of footsteps.

Hoping to see someone . . . something, anything to prove his mind hadn’t taken a wrong turn, now possible it was travelling a road toward insanity, Crane turned slowly to face the room, a wider range of sight, anxiety crawling across his skin. 

Light bulbs shattered, darkness erupting, returning to fill the reactor room. 

Their covers confining the glass fragments, stopping them from causing harm and injury, Crane still flinched with surprise, the breath catching in his throat, his body bending forward as his arms, his hands reached up to protect his head and face. He couldn’t ignore the obvious; all of the light bulbs exploding at the same time, not a coincidence Crane was certain. 

When nothing more happened, Crane lowered his arms and stood upright, waiting as his eyes adjusted to the change of light, the room stretching out before him, a muted shape of unpleasant darkness. As the darkness slowly retreated to a safe distance, the red glow of the reactor rods his only source of light, Crane shivered, an uncomfortable feeling crawling across his skin. He could feel a sense of emptiness, of loneliness.

Crane continued to wait, unsure if the sound of footsteps would return.

Still nothing.

“If there’s someone here, you need to step out now so I can see you,” said Crane, hoping a sight of normality would appear before him: a member of the crew, a stowaway . . . easier to defend himself when fighting a solid form.

There was no response, verbal or physical. No one stepped out to reveal themselves to Seaview’s captain. With no other choice left, Crane knew he had to search the reactor room. 

At first glance, the room looked empty but there were places to hide from view, to wait . . . With a light step, little noise made, Crane moved forward, gaze flicking left then right, searching. Catching a shadow of movement in his peripheral, Crane turned quickly to face what he knew, with sudden clarity, was a threat, not only to his sanity but his life . . . his skin tingling with the sensation of dread.

There was nothing there, the area in front of him empty, no immediate threat to the captain of Seaview. There was nothing creeping its way toward him, nothing formatting a silent attack while his back was turned.

He felt a moment of reprieve, a feeling he couldn’t explain . . . couldn’t explain the feeling of a life threatened . . . his own. It was as though he had expected someone or something to jump out of the dark shadows to attack him. 

A nagging worry bit at the base of his skull. He wasn’t confident, uncertain he should complete a search of the reactor room. Instinct had saved his life on more than one occasion and right now, instinct was telling him to turn and run but he couldn’t, the bulkhead door unmovable.

Shaking his head, he dismissed the feeling and turned back to face the reactor.

Something slammed into him, knocking him back and off his feet. He hit the floor hard, groaning in response when the pain burst through his shoulders and the back of his skull. 

Everything disappeared, an empty space . . . 

. . . a sudden return, body twitching, jerking with awareness, Crane understanding he had blacked out, a short loss of consciousness. For how long, he didn’t know.

Turning onto his side, Crane felt dizzy, a few agonising seconds of disorientation as the room spun, the slow methodical movement creating a feeling of nausea. When the sickening movement finally stopped, he took a slow, deep breath and pushed his body up onto hands and knees. With his head hanging low, Crane continued to breathe and when he was ready, he stood up.

He stumbled, falling back . . . falling to the floor. Closing his eyes, Crane lay still, unwilling to make a second attempt to stand.

Footsteps, the sound rushing past him once more. Another cold embrace.

Eyes snapping open, Crane turned his head, his gaze resting on the form standing a short distance away, their features hidden by the shadows clinging to the room; a small child wearing a long dress decorated with pale, yellow flowers. She drifted toward him . . . closer

No.

She flashed out of existence, as though she had never been there. As though she had been the result of his imagination . . . or a brain injury. Closed his eyes. 

His head ached, the pain sharp and heavy at the back of his skull. Nausea rolled through his stomach as he swallowed back the bile rising into his throat. Crane slowed his breathing, short static breaths as he waited for the side effects of what he assumed to be a concussion to pass. Knew they wouldn’t pass anytime soon, hours, days for the symptoms to ease. 

He didn’t have that long.

He had to leave.

Now.

Before she came back.

Opening his eyes, Crane shifted back onto his side and pushed his body up onto unsteady legs. Locking his knees in place, he managed to stay upright. Vision blurry, his gaze faltering, his equilibrium tripped and fell as he searched the room for . . . for what? 

A child. 

An apparition. 

A side effect of a head injury.

An explanation. 

He didn’t understand the situation. He didn’t understand why it was happening. He couldn’t identify the child or comprehend why she was here. He didn’t know why she had chosen him. Didn’t know what she was; history aboard the Seaview told him she could be anything: an apparition, an alien . . . just because she looked human, it didn’t mean she was.

Too many questions . . . questions he couldn’t answer, no available information.

The sound of footsteps, no longer rushed, came from somewhere behind him.

Crane turned his upper body, his head . . . a shadow of movement.

A solid blow against his back, forcing him forward. Balance broken, he fell, the landing less painful than the last but it still hurt, more than it should. On his stomach, Crane took an explorative deep breath. No new injuries; only increased pain, the pain in his skull now close to unbearable. Thinking, concentrating on what he had to do to escape . . . to survive was becoming a challenge

He lifted his head. 

In front of him . . . too close . . . small feet enclosed in black boots, the laces tangled in tight knots.

And then she moved, walking away from him, distance revealing more of her: her feet, her legs, bony hips, her back, blonde hair . . . her face as she turned to face him. Neck straining with effort, he could only watch as she smiled, straight white teeth, blue eyes bright. She looked normal, real . . .

She rushed toward him, booted feet slapping against the floor.

Without thinking, Crane reacted, snapping his body away. Expecting a painful collision, he kept moving, crawling away as fast as the vertigo filling his skull would allow. Struggled to find his bearings, his location in the reactor room. Gaze frantic, he saw the red glow of the reactor tubes to his right . . . then the bulkhead door was to his left. 

He stumbled upright, running to the door. Clumsy fingers gripped the handle, every effort made to turn it. The door still refused to open. He slammed a closed fist against the metal, an attempt to gain attention. Hit the door a second time, a third. About to use his voice, to call out for help, Crane remembered Seaview’s intercom system.

Moving to the left, he reached for handset, pulling it from its hook and raising it to his mouth. Pressing the button Crane said, “Admiral, this is Crane.”

Released the button and waited. Seconds passing.

A second attempt. “Admiral Nelson, this is Crane.”

“Lee,” said Nelson. 

The relief was strong, his shoulders falling, body relaxing. Wasn’t sure what he had expected, couldn’t be sure the intercom still worked . . .

“Have you located the problem in the reactor room?”

He couldn’t remember why he had come to the reactor room, everything a blur, a heavy fog. Crane struggled to think, to remember, his thoughts, his memory fighting to escape. The pain pounded through his skull, his body tilting, his balance insecure . . .

“Lee?”

Leaning against the wall, Crane wasn’t sure what he should say, what he could say, not sure, Nelson would believe him if he told the Admiral there was a young girl in the reactor room; a young girl who had so far, managed to give Seaview’s captain a concussion. He didn’t really have a choice, unable to leave the room on his own, the door locked.

Pressed the intercom button and said, “There’s someone here . . . a little girl . . .”

A sudden drop, his body violently pulled away from the wall, the ground beneath him lost. His body wrapped in a cold embrace he flew through the air, falling . . . back hitting the wall on the far side of the reactor room. A sharp cry of pain as he felt something break, the pain exploding through his back and chest as he dropped to the floor.

A short, broken breath . . . his ribs damaged, cracked or broken, it didn’t matter, the pain the same, both debilitating, making it harder to breathe. On his side, Crane lay still, unwilling or unable to move, he didn’t know which. 

Allowing his gaze to wander, he looked for the little girl in the flower pattern dress. She stood beside the intercom system, the handset swinging left to right, a slow movement. A step taken toward him, she smiled.

“What do you want?” 

She skipped forward, boots scuffing the floor. In a vulnerable position, Crane pushed his body up. No strength to go further, he leaned back against the wall, watching . . . willing her to stop before she reached him. 

She didn’t.

With short, rapid breaths, the pain tight across his back, Crane watched as she moved closer, gaze following her every movement as she continued to skip toward him. She looked so normal . . . as though she had just stepped out of a happy family postcard, the colours of her dress too bright, her smile . . . her eyes . . .

She stopped beside him, looking down at him with a curious . . . no, not curious . . . a hungry stare. Fear creating a burst of adrenaline, Crane struggled to move away from her, heels scraping against the floor, searching for purchase. Body injured, he couldn’t move quickly enough.

She followed him, matching each of his movements with her own, easily keeping pace. His back hit something solid . . . a sharp stab of pain. Watched as she knelt down beside him, as she reached toward him . . .

A gentle touch against his left cheek, her skin soft . . . cold.

“I want your breath.”

Crane frowned, confused, not understanding her intent. 

And then he felt it, a heavy weight in his chest as the air was pulled from his lungs. The simple act of breathing became a struggle, his lungs refusing to work, to take another breath. Crane turned, snapping his head away from her fingers, her touch removed . . . lungs heaved as he drew in a deep breath, the pain piercing through his back.

Understanding came quickly . . . her touch stole his breath.

He had to move away from her.

To create a safe distance.

He had to move.

Now.

He couldn’t, something solid behind him, the young girl too close to him. Instinct kicked in, Crane pushing forward as he used his left arm to push the small child away from him. A coldness wrapped around his chest as his hand brushed across her shoulder, warmth returning quickly when she fell back, away from him.

Pushing up onto legs trembling with weakness, Crane stumbled toward the bulkhead door, the vertigo he felt threatening to take him down. He didn’t know what he would do when he reached the door . . . the decision taken from him when a cold strength slammed into his back, throwing him forward. So close to the door, nothing else to stop his forward momentum, Crane hit the door, the obstacle unforgiving, an opposite reaction as he fell back, falling to the floor. Pain froze the breath in his lungs . . .

“I want your breath so I can live,” said the girl as she knelt down and reached for him once more, a cold touch as she rested her palm against the right side of his face.

His lungs stopped working.

Crane tried to move away, a difficult thing, the pain circling his chest and back, his skull heavy with a solid weight of pain. With each struggling breath, he felt the little strength he had leave him, an outgoing tide. Darkness circled his vision . . .

If he lost consciousness . . . understood death was waiting for him, reaching for him, embracing his body with long, thin fingers.

A noise behind him . . .

An abrupt departure, the girl standing and stepping away from him.

Death delayed, Crane took a breath and opened his eyes. Another breath . . . another . . . She stood beside him, looking down at him with an expression of disappointment. His body jerked with surprise when he heard something bang against the bulkhead door. He couldn’t pull his gaze away from the girl, watching as she stepped back, turned and walked away from him, her thin form disappearing from his view.

“Lee!”

“Skipper! You in there?”

The voices muffled, Crane still recognised them: Nelson and Sharkey. His rescue party. He tried to think . . . understanding coming too slow . . . the door still locked, they would be inside the reactor room with him if they were able to open it.

It wasn’t over.

She was still here.

Somewhere.

“Lee! Bang on the door if you can hear me.”

He wanted to answer, to help . . . to explain his condition . . . to warn them of the threat to his life, body already injured, death already too close.

“Lee, if you can use the intercom.”

The intercom. He could see it, the object of communication not too far away; possible he could reach it. Rolling onto his side, Crane did everything he could to ignore the pain. Forced his body to move, getting up onto his hands and knees and crawled to the intercom. His breath short, ragged, he reached up, right hand grabbing the handset as his body collapsed back onto the floor. Pushed back, resting against the wall, the reactor room in front of him, able to see the girl if she returned.

“Admiral . . .”

“Lee! What’s going on? We can’t get the door open.”

A sharp, short breath. “You need to find another way.”

“Is everything all right? Are you all right?”

“She’s trying . . . she’s trying to kill me.”

“Who? Lee, what are you talking about?”

“You have to find a way to get in.”

“Skipper, we can burn the lock off, open the door that way.”

Crane shook his head and said, “No . . . it won’t work. Find another way. Before she kills me.”

“All right, Lee. We can cut a hole through the wall but it’s going to take time.”

Nodding in acceptance, Crane dropped the handset. A slow breath as he tried to calculate the time it would take; too long, the minutes would feel like an eternity.

A soft humming filled the room, a child’s voice, the tune familiar. A childhood memory . . . 

She stepped out of the shadows, crossing the room as she continued to hum, the sound slowly morphing into words, her voice gentle, rhythmic as she sang. Recognition dawned as the words broke through the pain filling his skull . . .

_Was the bottom of the deep blue sea, sea, sea_.

Hands clasped behind her back, she stepped toward him.

_Was the bottom of the deep blue chop, chop, chop_.

Another step, taking her time.

_Was the bottom of the deep blue knee, knee, knee_.

Anxiety a painful knot in his chest, Crane began to move, to keep her at a distance. He could already hear the cutting equipment, Kowalski the best man for the job, always quick, efficient. But he needed time to cut through the wall. Time Crane had to create, he needed to stay alive long enough for them to get to him. 

_Was the bottom of the deep blue sea, chop_ . . .

He needed to stay alive long enough to survive an encounter he couldn’t understand or explain.

_chop_ . . .

And then what? What could they do to protect him? What could they do that he couldn’t to save his life.

_chop_ . . .

Her body snapped forward, too quickly for Crane to avoid her touch. Felt her fingers wrapping around his left ankle, a bitter cold crawling the length of his calf, through his thigh. She pulled him away from the wall, an abrupt movement, his upper body collapsing, falling, head striking the floor.

For a brief moment, Crane lost his sight, the threat of unconsciousness looming as she dragged him deeper into the shadows of the reactor room. Blinked, vision returning, the anxiety building as she released his ankle, leg dropping. He tried to move but he had no strength left . . . no time left.

She stepped around him, kneeling by his side. A gentle smile of understanding as she reached down, small hand cupping the side of his face. The effect immediate . . . Crane couldn’t breathe, his lungs no longer working.

As she took his breath, her entire appearance began to change. The colours of her dress began to fade, to darken, yellows turning grey . . . black. Her face withered, aging as her body grew in length and height. 

She stood up.

No.

The child was gone.

The girl was gone.

In her place a man stood, face lined with age, the dress replaced by a black suit, a white shirt . . . a thin black tie. He turned and walked away, stopping as he looked back at Crane.

And as he disappeared from Crane’s view, he said, “I have what I came for. You can die now.”

What just happened?

Crane didn’t know. 

Couldn’t explain it. 

He couldn’t understand it.

There were no answers.

He could hear them: the admiral, Sharkey, Kowalski, their voices filled with panic, with fear. 

Waited for death to take him as his lungs continued the fight to breathe, to fight for another breath, an attempt to prolong life. They were losing the battle.

His life was lost.

Knew he would lose consciousness first.

Nothing more he could do after that.

Felt the hands on his body.

“He’s not breathing.”

“Doc!”

Too late.

Darkness exploded around him.

.  
.  
.

“That’s it lad, keep breathing.”

Crane opened his eyes.

He felt the hard floor beneath him. The pain pounding through his skull, his back . . . his chest.

Felt the warm touch of someone’s hand resting on his forehead.

“That’s all you need to do right now, Lee. Breathe.”

Still alive.

Shifted his gaze, vision faltering as he searched the faces hovering over him, gaze settling on Seaview’s doctor, looking for an explanation, an understanding. 

Sharkey, never one to hold back, smiled and said, “CPR, Skipper. Doc gave you the kiss of life.”

Turned his head toward Nelson. 

Through blurred vision, he could see the relief on Nelson’s features, the damp emotion in his eyes.

“Just keep breathing, Lee,” said Nelson. “Keep breathing.”

Crane closed his eyes and drew in a slow shallow breath . . . another breath.

Kept breathing.


End file.
